


The Gauntlet

by oOAchilliaOo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29680125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oOAchilliaOo/pseuds/oOAchilliaOo
Summary: She knew that retrieving the Urn of Sacred Ashes wasn’t going to be easy, but she hadn’t expected quite so many trials.And she definitely hadn’t expected said trials to reveal so much about her or her fellow Grey Warden.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22





	The Gauntlet

“Alistair,” she whimpered, quiet enough that only he could hear. “That was my father.”

“I know,” he murmured back, thankfully choosing not to point out the obvious fact that it _wasn’t_ her father. It couldn’t be. Her father was dead.

Yet…

The way he had spoken: so like him, so familiar. She’d never thought she’d hear him call her ‘pup’ again…

“Are you all right?” Alistair asked softly, a hand hovering around her upper back, as if he wanted to hug her but wasn’t sure if he should.

“I’m fine,” she lied, her fingers curling around the amulet that her father, or… whatever that apparition had been, had given her. “Come on.” She turned to Leliana and Wynne, hastily stuffing the amulet into the pouch on her belt. “Let’s see what else this place has in store.”

Hours later, or at least what _felt_ like hours later – in reality it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes – she was exhausted, covered in an unpleasant layer of sweat and grime, and aching. Maker, even _lifting_ her longsword and dagger was an effort.

Opposite, however, the shadowy spirit-like version of herself was showing no such signs of exhaustion. It was still parrying her every attack like it knew her every move before she could make it. Which, of course, it probably did, considering that both of them were using identical tactics.

She ducked under her opponent’s shadowy blade and caught sight of Alistair facing his own double across the room. His considerable strength was also failing in the face of its unrelenting exact match. 

“Alistair!” she yelled, backing towards his corner, waiting for the exact right moment.

“What?” he ground out, fending off a particularly brutal attack.

She paused, waiting until she could feel the steel of his armour against her back.

“Switch!” she cried, ducking under her opponent’s dagger and stepping smartly around Alistair, trusting, _hoping_ , that he would move in counterpoint.

He did, and suddenly she found herself staring into the calm, blank expression of Alistair’s doppelgänger. It surprised her, especially because she didn’t think she’d ever seen the real Alistair’s expression so… neutral, and she only just managed to raise her dagger in time.

Okay. Alistair. What did she know about _Alistair’s_ fighting style?

Alistair was strong, a fact made evident by the way she was already almost buckling under the pressure of his blade atop hers. But he was also slower than she was and his shield could only protect one side at a time. Quick, fast strikes then. Constant movement.

Void, she wished they’d sparred more often.

Or that she’d won at least once against him.

Darting sideways, her blade hit its mark in the chainmail between the back and front of his breastplate.

She tried to ignore the way the shadow didn’t utter a sound, didn’t even alter its facial expression despite the ghostly white substance now trickling from the wound.

Ducking under its blade, she circled him… _it_ , trying her best to ignore how it wore Alistair’s face, how it moved like him. Three more strikes to its side, between its ribs. She had, of course, no idea if the thing even _had_ organs for her to puncture, but she wasn’t about to risk her life by altering tactics on the fly.

Duck, step, strike. Over and over and over until finally the ghostly Alistair fell to his knees and with one great swing, she severed its head from its neck. It bounced, and rolled across the floor until it came to rest against the real Alistair’s boot.

“That’s… terrifying.” He peered down at his own head before it vanished along with the twisted, battered version of her own corpse that she was trying so hard not to look at.

“Oh?” she said, trying her best to sound light-hearted.

“Yeaaaaaaaah,” he drawled, his typical grin sliding across his fact. “I mean, if the real me steps out of line, are you going to behead me too?”

“Course not,” she scoffed, the return of his usual jovial mood making her feel instantly better. “Not behead you… Maybe take a limb or two.”

“Riiiiiight, very comforting. Thanks.”

They shared a grin which apparently was all the bolstering she needed before she turned around to comfort an understandably shaken Wynne and Leliana.

The next room seemed to hold nothing but a large, impassable canyon. Fortunately, while she and Alistair were mumbling about how they could get a rope over to the other side, Leliana accidently stepped on one of six tiles spread evenly around the canyon and the ghostly form of part of a bridge appeared.

“Andraste only favoured the clever it seems,” Alistair drawled, when, after several minutes of experimenting, they’d managed to construct a real, solid bridge across the cavern.

She hadn’t understood how it worked precisely. There was probably some pattern or sense to it, but trial and error had worked just as well.

Hopefully there wouldn’t be too many other tests to face. She honestly wasn’t sure how much more she could take, after killing a full-grown high dragon, seeing her father, fighting a spectral version of herself and then Alistair to even get this far, she was beginning to feel the need for a long, _long_ rest. 

Then she read the inscription on the altar before them.

“Oh, for Andraste’s sake,” she spat.

“Quite literally in this case,” Alistair drawled, surprisingly nonplussed for what they were being asked to do. “What do you suppose it means?”

Ah.

Oh, Maker, she was going to have to _explain_ …

“I think it means we need to rid ourselves of our worldly possessions, so we can pass through the fire and be born anew before the Maker,” Leliana said, confirming her own suspicions and thankfully ridding her of the need to explain them to Alistair. 

“What even… our _clothes_?”

“One presumes,” she mused, trying to subtly take the calming breaths she needed to stop her face turning as red as a tomato.

“I don’t suppose… Perhaps only one of us…” Alistair began.

“All right then, I nominate you,” she said immediately, trying not to giggle as his expression guttered and his own cheeks turned the slightest shade of pink.

“Oh, all right.” He turned his back and began to unbuckle his breastplate faster than she had ever seen him remove his armour before.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she began to do the same, though she was unable to stop the blood rushing to her cheeks.

It was wrong to look.

So very, very wrong.

But as she bent down to unbuckle her boots, she couldn’t help but glance over at him through the curtain of her hair.

Maker, he was _broad_. She’d been around men wearing heavy plate all her life and was used to the fact that they seemed somewhat smaller without the plate. But, somehow, Alistair seemed just as broad and strong and imposing _without_ the plate as he did while wearing it.

Which was an odd thing for her to notice now, because it wasn’t as if he’d been wearing his plate the entire time.

Perhaps it was because she could see the rippling muscles of his back as he bent to remove his own boots. Perhaps it was the thoughts in her head about how it would feel to run her fingers across it. How warm and safe and secure it would feel to be held in those arms and crushed to that chest.

Thoughts she probably shouldn’t be having in the presence of the _literal_ ashes of Andraste.

She hesitated a little over removing her shirt and breeches, unwilling to bare her skin, but she also supposed that there was no going back now.

At least the fire would keep them warm.

“So, do we just… step through?” she asked, her arms wrapped around her chest as if that might hide her from her companions.

“Guess there’s only one way to fight out.” Alistair’s own arms were wrapped around his waist while his eyes stared so fixedly and determinedly into hers that she thought he might bore a hole through her skull.

Together, as with everything else they had done so far, they stepped into the flames.

There was an uncomfortable prickling in her skin, as if someone was lightly dragging a feather across it, and then they were through, the flames vanishing behind them.

“Thank the Maker,” she breathed, attempting to dart back to her discarded pile of clothing only to be stopped by the sudden presence of the Guardian.

“You have been through the trials of the gauntlet,” he said.

(She tamped down the urge to point out that he might have at least let her _dress_ before telling her what she already knew.)

“You have walked the path of Andraste, and, like her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourself worthy, pilgrim. Approach the sacred ashes.”

In a blink the Guardian, spirit, or whatever he was, had vanished. Without even looking at the others, or daring to look upon the urn that she’d briefly caught sight of on the dais, she dressed.

There ought to have been some sort of ceremony really, she thought. Even though they had passed through the trials, and even though doing so hadn’t been easy, she felt that someone, anyone else ought to have _handed_ her a pinch of the ashes.

It felt somehow… sacrilegious to lift the top of the urn herself and gaze into the grey powder that looked for all the world like the ashes on their campfire the previous night, but was, in truth, the last remains of Andraste, Bride of the Maker. Either way, though, it was up to her to reach in, and to grab as much as she dared.

She had to remind herself how necessary it was a few times before she could bring herself to remove any. Then, as soon as she’d pulled her hand free, the remains clutched tight in her hand, she realised that she had, in fact, brought no vessel suitable for transporting the ashes.

Which was fair, because, in all honesty, she hadn’t expected to actually find them, but now it presented something of a problem.

Before she could speak, though, Alistair was there with a scrap of linen and Wynne wordlessly handed her a small drawstring pouch that could be worn about the neck.

As they left and headed back to their camp just outside of Haven, she found herself reflexively checking that the pouch was still laid against her breast every few seconds or so. Just to make sure it was there.

All things considered, today had been a very weird day. Of course, the number and barometer for weird occurrences in her mind had changed rapidly since… well, since Howe had attacked Castle Cousland, if she were honest, but today might have taken it a step further.

Today she’d fought a dragon, faced the trials of the gauntlet, seen a ghostly version of her father, and retrieved the literal Ashes of Andraste.

Yet, when they were back at the camp and she was thinking about all of it, the images that kept floating to the top of her mind were that of Alistair’s bared back as he bent to remove his boots. Of the way he had comforted her when she’d been faced with the ghost of her father. Of the fact that he had immediately moved in counterpoint to her when they had been fighting their ghostly doubles.

At first it had been easy to dismiss such things. They were both Grey Wardens. Then later, that they were the last two Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden. She had assumed that such a bond had once existed between all the Wardens lost at Ostagar. But now, given the way that the small smile he shot her across the camp made her heart leap in her chest, she realised she might have to consider… other possibilities.

Another day. For now, they had to get back to Redcliffe.

After all, it would be ridiculous to fall in love during a Blight.

Wouldn’t it?


End file.
